


If It Would Ever End

by truc



Series: What are friends for? [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Musing, Philosophy, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 05:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13652184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truc/pseuds/truc
Summary: Bruce and Clark discuss while watching the rain fall.





	If It Would Ever End

"Clark," Bruce says turning his back to his friend, hands gripping behind his back, "Do you think it will ever end?"

Clark knew most people would assume the other man was talking about the rain pouring outside the window. Yet, knowing his friend, Bruce was talking about something deeper without naming it. It could be life, evil, tiredness, work, love, hope, worries...

The reporter couldn't know without more hints.

"Do you want it to end?" he quietly answers searching his friend's body for any sort of clues. His superhearing is focusing entirely on his friend.

Bruce doesn't answer, physically nor verbally. Like always, he continues on his line of thought without explanation and a steady heartbeat.

"Alfred once told me everything comes to an end whether we want it or not."

Clark tries to place this statement in context. For Bruce, context is everything. Was this before or after his parents' death? Before or after Bruce travelled the world? Before Batman? Before Jason?

The rains continue dripping all over the garden, the butler had worked so hard to keep 'respectable'. Alfred, who kept this house from completely becoming a mausoleum, for it to become ultimately Bruce's grave. Unfortunately, it also meant Bruce spent more time running away from the ghosts, hiding in the cave that previously had scared him so much. It was ironic Bruce was now scared of the Manor and felt safe in the cave.

It seems we didn't really get over our fears, we simply shifted them around.

Clark could understand that. His parents' home had too many memories. The frigid Arctic Fortress of Solitude was sometimes more soothing for his soul.

"You still haven't answered my question," the reporter finally responded with curiosity.

Bruce sighs, face still turned to the garden. It is too dark for Clark to decipher his reflection. His friend probably took that into account. He didn't like to feel weak. Or he felt better in the dark. Clark wasn't sure.

Tac. Tac. Tac.

The man is set in stone, carved from the very foundation of Gotham. Hard. Tough. Enduring despite everything.

Clark is the Man of Steel. Sometimes, though, he feels he is the frail man between the two. Superman may seem hard, tough and enduring like the statues they raise in his honour.

Clark is made of summer hay. Ephemeral. Light. Flexible.

"Do you?" Bruce whispers back, still seemingly looking at grass growing wetter and greener under the wash of Mother Nature. He may also be looking at the lightning strikes or the creepy wood.

Is it a question? Is it a rhetorical question? Clark still doesn't know. He wants to take Bruce's shoulder and turn him to face him. He wants questions with a clear purpose and context.

Clark thinks it is clear in Bruce's strange mind. That Bruce thinks anyone should know what he means and why he means it from comparing to memory and context. And Clark's memory is perfect. And Clark has observed the context. Bruce may truly believe Clark understands him.

Still, the reporter wonders if he is again lost in a labyrinth. If, this time, he didn't have a string to help him backtrack. Because, with Bruce, it was a game. You would try one corridor after the other, trying to guess when you have found the true monster. Where Bruce's present anxiety was stemming from. Then, and only then, could you slay the Minotaur terrorizing your friend.

Truth is, Clark is sure, most of the monsters he has fought in his acquiescence to Bruce were purely imaginative. That none of them were Bruce's source of anxiety and worry. There was no celebration at the end. They would go on as if there was no labyrinth nor monsters.

Maybe Clark was the one inventing layers and layers of meaning in Bruce's mundane sentences. Maybe there were no monsters to slay.

Nonetheless, Clark perseveres. If there is a monster, it should be fought.

"Sometimes I want things to end, just to sleep," Clark answers, waiting for a response from his friend. No muscle shift. The broad back stays erect and proud.

"Sometimes, I want to give up. But I won't," the reporter continues, still trying to read any sign he is heading in the right direction.

"No."

Clark does not know if it is a question or an answer. There was a pause, yet no hesitation. It was said clearly but not stated. It is overwhelmingly Bruce. Somewhere stuck between an answer and a non-answer. Stuck between life and death.

The reporter knows he is lucky to even get this glimpse of Bruce. Sometimes, he feels it more frustrating getting those frayed hints of something more.

His friend exists.

In what manner is the issue. Incertitude about whether Bruce is in the alley clouds Clark's sunny resolution. Or the Manor. Or the Cave. Or in his head. Or in Ethiopia. Or at some other tragic spot.

Because the man in front of him may as well not be there. Clark wants someone else to help him shoulder this friendship. He moves planets around. He disrupts the universe. It would be more inhuman to be able to read this man in front of him. Even Hercules would have refused to undergo this task.

Still, Clark hopes. Maybe it is sufficient of a weapon to pierce the clouds, darkness and mists surrounding Bruce.

The rain continues falling.

Bruce finally returns to his seat. He smiles at Clark halfway sincere, halfway in jest.

"I think it will eventually stop," he calmly says, "Do you want some more wine?"

**Author's Note:**

> Being friends with Bruce is hard.


End file.
